


the stories we tell

by Shaicarus



Category: Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: Abe is also mentioned for like half a second, Blood, But it's stated to be temporary, Death, Gen, Gore, Horror, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Not like...actual Mark, RPF is nto my thing, To be clear the Mark in this fic is The Actor, canon is my play-doh, unclear timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:02:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27240883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaicarus/pseuds/Shaicarus
Summary: "It does love its stories," he says, tone musing and far away. "So many genres." He pauses, looking around as if he's convinced they're being watched by someone. They probably are. They usually are.Wil makes an expectant gesture with one hand."Did you know," Damien carries on, "that there are some genres where it's not just expected, but nearly a requirement for the hero to die?"
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	the stories we tell

**Author's Note:**

> ever since Wilford 'Motherloving' Warfstache, I've liked the idea that Wilford's weirdo teleport-y powers and disregard for the proper flow of time is analogous to pausing a movie so I'm running with it. also I wound up randomly binging the whole Who Killed Markiplier?-verse, so this happened.

There's a story starting again. Sometimes there are _moments_ , where it tries to decide what it wants to do. What story it wants to tell. Moments where they're free to do as they please in this world that defies all laws. But those moments are short. There's usually at least one story playing out. More than one, sometimes, if certain stories don't need all the pieces.

Wil is standing on a dark and snow-coated rural road, the moon full overhead and the streetlights shining and the trees creaking. Trees and trees and trees in every direction, each one crusted with ice.

Wil's ears begin to ring, and he looks to his right as Damien hops up onto the guardrail, his hands out to his sides as he walks along it. The world flickers for an instant, and for a split second Damien is on opposite ends of the guardrail, hopping onto one end and off the other. And then time rights itself, in as much as it ever does, and Damien is again simply walking along his impromptu balance beam.

"It does love its stories," he says, tone musing and far away. "So many genres." He pauses, balanced carefully, looking around as if he's convinced they're being watched by someone. They probably are. They usually are.

Wil makes an expectant gesture with one hand.

"Did you know," Damien carries on, "that there are some genres where it's not just expected, but nearly a requirement for the hero to die?" He hops down from the other end of the guardrail.

Wil has no time to reply. Somewhere farther down the road, tires shriek across frozen asphalt, and there's a scream of twisting metal. The world seems to stretch, and Damien is gone. Wil hits pause and the trees go silent as he lopes along to catch up.

The car accident comes into view, unmoving. The front of the car is crumpled around a street light. Damien stands next to the car, one hand reaching for the nearest rear door. Wil hits play and finishes catching up at a sedate pace.

Without even making contact with the door, Damien is in the backseat. He cracks his neck and waits. His after image jitters impatiently.

In the front seat, Mark groggily peels himself away from his slump against the steering wheel with a dazed, "Motherfuck..."

Damien waits.

Wil is nearly standing right beside the accident by the time Mark casts a glance at the rearview mirror, and he flails, forearms slamming into the roof before his seatbelt yanks him back.

"Took you a while, friend," Damien observes dryly, "but you made it." And then he grabs the lever at the side of the seat, pulls, and heaves his weight forward.

Mark shrieks as his seat slams forward. His nose audibly crunches as it meets the steering wheel. And then Damien is sitting in the front passenger seat, hands resting patiently on his thighs as Mark struggles back upright. "A nice night for a run, don't you think?"

He reaches over and unlatches Mark's seatbelt.

Mark stares for a very long moment, before throwing himself at the door. He trips out of the car, finds his footing, and takes off into the trees.

Leisurely, Damien reaches into the back again, feeling around until he plucks a ball-peen hammer from the rear wheel well.

Wil finds himself observing, "That's not an ax." He isn't sure where the thought came from.

No matter. Damien is out of the car. He gives the hammer a toss and catches it again before setting off at a stroll, his after image lagging behind as it clutches its hair and howls with laughter before snapping out of view.

Wil jogs to catch up, hands laced together behind his back as he does. "Big plans?"

"You could say that."

"Mind if I tag along?"

Damien slides him a wry, sidelong look. "You're going to anyway."

Wil tries to look innocent. It's not one of his talents. Multiple TV producers can vouch for that. But Damien doesn't protest, which is the important part.

They walk in silence for a time, or as close to silence as they're ever going to get. And then an abandoned hunting stand comes into view, Mark huddled in the corner, a cell phone raised to his ear. And just like that, Damien is gone. Wil hits pause and catches up, and when he hits play again, standing beneath the hunting stand, he can hear Mark babbling into the phone about his current predicament. If he listens, he can just about make out Abe's voice on the other end of the line.

But they are, of course, all in the middle of nowhere, and these kinds of stories don't have happy endings for the hero. Like clockwork, Mark loses reception and the line goes dead.

"No, no, no, not now, c'mon you sonofabitch!"

The tree stand creaks, and Wil takes a few steps out from beneath it, so when he looks up he can see what's going on. Damien is standing behind Mark's shivering huddle, unnoticed for the moment. And then he reaches over and plucks the phone from Mark's hold.

Mark goes rigid. Slowly, one millimeter at a time, he peers over his shoulder, until he meets Damien's gaze. And then he screams and scrambles away, evidently forgetting how small the tree stand is until he topples out of it to the snow below.

He scrambles back to his feet and goes haring away.

Time flickers. Damien is in the tree stand, under the tree stand, and walking away all at once in that split second. And then it settles, and he is standing beneath the tree stand, idly tossing Mark's phone over his shoulder.

He slides Wil a look, something that could almost be called a smile, and then he keeps moving.

When they emerge from the trees after what was maybe a few hundred yards of walking or maybe a few miles, it's never clear anymore, a frozen lake spreads out before them. Wil isn't even sure where the road is anymore, or if it's even still where they left it.

Mark is halfway across the lake's frozen surface. Were he in any other situation, it would be a very respectable lead. But in his current situation, well.

Damien takes another step. Time breaks. Between one step and the next, he closes the distance and catches Mark by the arm, and Mark whips around to face him as he wrenches his arm free. It's not the greatest idea.

Damien slams into him and they both go tumbling toward the lake. There's a grunt as Mark's head meets the ice, and he blinks sluggishly for a moment, dazed. Something like clarity returns to his expression, but only for a second. Straddling him, Damien slams Mark's head into the ice again.

Mark goes still and Damien leans closer.

"Don't worry," Damien says, his voice a low, soothing purr. "This is a place for broken things. I think you'll be right at home."

He lifts the hammer. He swings. There's a wet and meaty crunch, and Mark's limbs all spasm as his face caves in.

Damien swings the hammer again

again

again

again

"Damien," Wil finally interjects as he gets closer, "you know this is only temporary, no matter how many times you hit him. Besides," and he wrinkles his nose, "at this point you're just making jam."

again

"We all crave catharsis, old friend." Damien is smiling

again

but his grin is more of a richtus,

again

like a scar that's been ripped into his face.

again

Wil hits pause. Damien has the hammer raised again when he freezes, and Wil plucks the hammer from his grasp before hitting play once again. Off-balance at the hammer's sudden loss, Damien pitches forward, catching himself with his hands in the mess of blood and brain matter and bone chips. There's nothing left that even resembles a face.

Halfheartedly, Damien scrubs his hands off on the front of Mark's coat. It doesn't help much, and he still winds up staining his suit as he reaches up to habitually straighten his collar. He doesn't seem to care. Nor when he sits back on his heels and yanks a hand through his hair, leaving it streaked with grime. He glowers up at Wil, eyes darting from Wil's face to the stolen hammer, though there's remarkably little heat behind the expression.

"It seemed like you were getting a tad distracted," Wil says, linking his hands behind his back, hammer abruptly elsewhere. "Like one of those yappy little dogs chasing its tail."

Damien doesn't argue. He pops his neck with an audible crack, absentmindedly scrubbing his hands off once more.

"You're going to dislocate something," Wil says, "and don't expect me to pop it back into place when you do."

"It's broken, Wil," Damien replies blandly. "These things happen when you fall off a balcony."

"When on _Earth_ did you fall off a balcony?" Wil demands, planting his hands on his hips. 

Damien stares back at him quietly, save for that ever-present ringing. Even. Calculating. Like he's looking at something he knows he could break. "This place could drive me mad, Wil," he says instead, so very placid. Like he's just making an observation.

Wil hadn't been holding a magazine a moment ago, but such things were never relevant. What's relevant is that he's holding one _now_. He rolls it up and swats Damien over the head with it. The ringing stops for a split second as Damien jolts in surprise.

For a moment, it's like no time has passed at all, and it's just Wil's old friend scowling up at him, affronted and prissy.

"Wil, what the _hell_?"

"This place could drive you mad," Wil agrees, "but only if you let it."

Damien's expression turns sardonic, and he gets back to his feet. He could say a lot of things. He looks like he _wants_ to say a lot of things.

"How long do you suppose we have before the next story starts?" he asks instead. "I don't imagine there's much left of this one." He glances distastefully at the ess at his feet.

"Not long, I reckon," Wil replies. The ice is already beginning to crack beneath their feet, after all. "Best we get back to solid ground before that happens."

**Author's Note:**

> anyway, come poke me on [tumblr](https://shaicarus.tumblr.com/). sometimes I take fic requests.


End file.
